The hand that had been caressing her stilled. Kit’s eyes darkened with purpose. “I should have listened to my instincts then,” he said. “Even Godfrey recognized a threat.”
“Godfrey left me,” she whispered, burrowing back into his firm shoulder and the folds of his Irish linen shirt.
“I know. He told me. Are you sad?” he asked, his hand slowly resuming its seductive quest.
“Do you think less of me because my mother wasn’t married when I was born?”
“Did you think less of me because my mother left me at an orphanage and I wore the same shirt for weeks at a time when we were young?”
“You never looked scruffy to me, Kit.”
“I washed my shirt in the stream and wore it back to the workhouse wet whenever I saw you. I didn’t want you to know how wretched I was. I wanted to look like a person worthy of your admiration.”
“Kit,” she whispered, raising her head to look up at him. “You’re the bravest person I have ever known.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
“Then marry me.”
“Yes,” she said. “And yes. Yes. And in case I wasn’t clear the first three times, my answer is yes. When?”
He laughed. “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave anything to chance again. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“You’ve lost your mind,” she said, struggling to break free. “We can’t have a ceremony in Ambrose’s house—and I don’t have a dress. My aunt would have to know—Kit . . .” She wriggled to her feet, staring down at him in dismay. “How can we get married at a house party? What happened to an old-fashioned courtship?”
“I think a decade of friendship counts for something. Even in medieval days I doubt they went any longer than that, and if they did, that explains all the besieged castles and stolen brides that never made much sense to me from a historical perspective; but from the point of a man desperately in love, I now understand.”
“What?”
“The wooing is over. Except for your aunt.”
“You aren’t serious. I don’t have a dress.”
“Look inside your wardrobe.”
She did, opening the heavy rosewood door to see a dress that looked as if it were made of clouds and spun sugar, with water pearls and fine embroidery on the sleeves and a low-cut bodice. It was the most beautiful bridal gown she had ever seen, but... “This is from Winifred?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t make it.”
“Do you think it will fit me?” she asked, biting her lip.
He grinned. “It should. I described your proportions to her.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“She couldn’t have made it for me in such a short time. Was it hers?”
“I think so. Wish me luck facing your aunt.”
“Luck,” she whispered, lifting the gown down to admire it in the light.
Kit charged up the stairs to the long gallery, bowing and muttering, “Pardon me,” to the startled guests he bumped against. He wondered why no one so much as replied, “I should think so,” or whether Ambrose had invited an exceptionally polite crowd, or if the fact that he was one of few men present wearing a sword gave the impression that he was late to a duel.
He turned at the top of the stairs and addressed the two ladies staring up at him from the landing. “Excuse me, ladies, but I’m going to propose marriage.”
“Marriage?” The ladies giggled in delight.
“To one or both of us?” the younger inquired.
“You’ll have to choose, maestro,” the eldest said with a saucy look. “You can’t marry both of us.”
“What a pity,” he said, his eyes lowering in playful woe.
The Duke of Wynfield came running up the stairs alongside Kit. “Does either of you ladies require assistance?”
Kit cut him a droll look. “Not unless you want to marry one of them.”
Wynfield smiled uneasily. “Not today, thank you.” He started to edge away. “And thank you, Fenton, for the warning. I think I’ll use the other stairs.”
“No. Stay with me.”
Wynfield glanced up at the long gallery. “Any maidens up there in need of comfort?”
“I doubt it. Their caretakers presumably dropped the bolts when they saw us coming up the stairs.”
The duke walked up behind Kit to the portrait-hung long gallery. “I see more footmen at this party than young ladies. Where are the debutantes?”
“Sequestered in the north tower under the guard of their dragonesses,” Kit replied, studying the small figure sweeping majestically toward the staircase from the end of the gallery. A pair of servants flanked her at either side of the wings.
“Isn’t that a dragoness flying toward us?” the duke asked.
Kit put his hand to his sword. “Yes, but don’t worry.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s my dragoness, not yours, and it is my duty to confront her.”
Wynfield recoiled in shock. “But she’s an elderly woman.”
“Her advanced age is a weapon.”
The duke slowed another step. “But you cannot fight a lady of her years.”
“Did I give you the impression that I intended to challenge her?”
“Well, I saw your hand go to your sword when you noticed her—”
“For luck, Wynfield. I’m not about to do battle with a baroness.”
The duke glanced down the gallery. “By the look on her face, she might not feel the same way.”
“I appreciate the show of support,” Kit said stoutly.
“I’ve never acted as a second in a duel between a man and woman before.”
Kit threw out his arm to impede Wynfield’s progress. “One more encouraging remark like that and you and I are going to have it out right here.”
“What do you want me to do?” Wynfield asked distractedly, eyeing a chambermaid who had just appeared with a basket of soap balls and sachets swinging in her hand.
“It’s like walking to one’s execution,” Kit said, lowering his arm.
“That’s not a promising way to view a proposal,” the duke said, following the chambermaid with his eyes. “Where is the maidservant going?”
Kit had to laugh. “Thank you for the reminder. There’s nothing morbid about marriage, assuming I get that far. What harm can an elderly woman inflict on me that I haven’t already experienced? I’ve lived through every manner of shame. The worst thing she can do is refuse me. Or go into hysterics again.”
“Did you say something, Fenton?”
“I said a lot of things that I’m not going to repeat. But thank you for pretending to pay attention.”
Kit lifted his shoulders, mentally girding his loins for battle. The baroness had him in her sights, making him glad he had changed into his black tailed coat and formal trousers. He had performed before princes and dukes, Gypsies and greater masters than he could ever hope to be. But he had never felt as unsure of himself as he did as he approached the frail, silver-haired woman whose shrieks had haunted him for years.
She walked straight toward him, her gait slow but confident. She knew who he was. She wasn’t going to back out of this encounter. She was going to give him a chance. His future depended on their duel. He would live or die today by how well he fought for what he wanted.
“Here.” He impulsively unsheathed his sword and passed it back to the duke, who was lagging farther and farther behind. “Hold this for me.”
He turned.
And swept into a bow before the baroness. “My lady,” he said, “I am honored to meet you again under these circumstances.”
“Which are more favorable than the last,” the baroness said, her eyes sparkling as he straightened. “I am on my way to tea. Would you care to join me?”
He smiled. “With your permission, I am on my way to my wedding. Do you think that tea could wait until tomorrow?”
Pascal de Soubise had packed into his portmante
au several pairs of gloves, a change of clothing, and the snuffbox he had stolen from the emporium. He would carry his dagger with him when he made his escape from the country house to the coast. He disliked the necessity of wearing a wig as a disguise for the Channel crossing. But he was close to ending his chase and fulfilling the pledge he’d made to his father. He looked forward to prowling the Parisian boulevards. Perhaps, in a few months, he would travel to Louisiana or the Carolinas, where dueling was the rage.
He had no particular desire to cross blades with Fenton at a house party. Then again, the challenge posed added heat to what he had considered a lukewarm kill. He abhorred the rules of polite fencing, the use of the foil. A swordsman fought duels, and he fought to draw blood.
Chapter 27
The baroness had accepted Kit’s offer for Violet’s hand and agreed to the necessity of a whirlwind wedding. The pupils of Kit’s academy who had been invited to the house party stood guard outside the manor gates as Kit, Eldbert, the duke, and Twyford whisked the bride-to-be and her aunt into Kit’s mud-splattered traveling coach.
It appeared to Kit that they would make a clean escape. Most of the guests were engrossed in a late-afternoon cricket game on the lawn. Two of Kit’s students were giving free fencing instructions on the terrace. As far as the other ladies at the party knew, Violet and the baroness had decided not to appear for tea. Master Fenton had been briefly spotted outside the billiards room, and a small congregation stood outside the closed doors in the hope that he would soon emerge.
“I can’t believe that nobody saw us,” Violet said breathlessly, her eyes shining as the coach clattered over a sturdy stone bridge toward the tiny chapel that Eldbert had found on one of his maps.
Kit pulled his head back in the window. He wasn’t sure now that they’d made a clean escape at all. A gentleman in a top hat was striding down the drive, his gloved hands on his hips. “I wonder if we should have invited him.”
“Who?” Violet asked softly.
He stared at her, shaking his head. She looked so winsome in the voluminous tulle gown Winifred had created that he couldn’t remember his own name for a moment. She was a Christmas present wrapped up in so many billowing layers of lace and loveliness that he couldn’t wait to open her. She was wearing elbow-length white gloves, holding Eldbert’s hand on one side, and her aunt’s on the other. And soon she would be his wife.
Kit turned his head, glancing at the duke. He liked Wynfield well enough, but somehow it felt wrong to be sitting beside him at a moment like this. Should he have invited Ambrose? Why? Because he and Violet had escaped without permission from his party? Why should Ambrose come? So that he could spoil their wedding as he had spoiled their adventures?
Violet uncrossed her satin-shod feet. “Who was that in the driveway?” she whispered. “Did we forget someone?”
Eldbert glanced at Kit across the coach.
“Was it Ambrose?” Violet guessed, bending toward the window like a summer blossom in the breeze. “Shouldn’t we go back and invite him?”
“Why?” the duke and Lady Ashfield asked at the same time.
“It is his party,” Eldbert said, moving to give Violet’s gown more room. “We probably should have told him where we are going and that we’d be back.”
Kit frowned. “You’re the one who thought he was planning something spiteful.”
“I thought he was. But now I wonder if he wasn’t just showing off. He’s done better than all of us.”
“Not than me,” the duke said.
Eldbert nodded. “But you’re not one of us.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Never mind,” the baroness said. “It’s a long story and a secret. We can let you in on it after the wedding.”
Ambrose watched the coach rattle out through the gates and veer toward the village road. Not for a moment did the impromptu fencing display in the driveway deceive him. Kit had run off with Eldbert, Violet, and God only knew who else. Wherever they were going, they meant to exclude Ambrose. Kit had looked right at him when he’d stuck his head out the window.
He should have made a cutting remark about Fenton’s background earlier. Or about Violet’s unladylike youth. He was a fool for feeling any loyalty to Eldbert, or for imagining true friendship between them. Just as he was a fool for thinking Kit could teach his sons a few tricks to keep them from getting fagged at school.
And where was Violet’s button-seller fiancé in all this? Any gentleman would be mortified to see his betrothed trundling off in a coach with three unmarried men. Ambrose wouldn’t be surprised to hear she was in the market for a new protector on Monday, her value considerably decreased as a result of this little escapade.
Friendship.
Did Ambrose need it, anyway?
“Ambrose!” a petulant voice called to him from the steps. “What are you doing standing there all by yourself when there are guests in the house?”
He sighed, turning to see first his mother, dressed like a wraith in gray, and beside her his wife, in a yellow-striped taffeta dress that hurt his eyes.
“Why are you alone, darling?” Clarinda asked, grabbing his sleeve to steady herself in the gravel.
“I was watching the students practice a sword fight.” He indicated the group of young men scattering across the drive. “It’s over now.”
“Who left in that coach?” his mother demanded.
“I—”
“It looked like Eldbert and Violet. Are they teasing you again, Ambrose?”
“No, Mother, they are—”
“They’re coming back!” Clarinda cried, standing on the tips of her shoes. “They’re turning back and waving at you from the window, Ambrose. I think they’re asking you to go with them.”
He shook his head, his hands buried in his pockets. “No. No. That’s the bend in the road. The coach is turning onto it.”
“No. It isn’t, Rosie,” his mother said, pointing with her cane. “They’re coming straight back toward you. I’d turn and pretend I didn’t see them if I were you. Quickly. Go and talk to the other important guests. I’ve no idea why you invited them in the first place. Where did that duke go?”
Lady Charnwood looked up at her husband’s face. “Ambrose? What do you want to do? Someone told me this morning that by this time next year Christopher Fenton will be made a baronet due to the influence of the Boscastle family.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t rise higher,” he said, smiling reluctantly as he recognized Kit’s head halfway out the coach window. “He has the devil’s confidence, Clarinda.”
“Viscount Charnwood!” Kit shouted from the slowing coach. “Would you and the viscountess care to slip away for a whirlwind wedding?”
Ambrose wavered. “May I bring my mother?”
“Mothers are always welcome,” Kit replied, even though the baroness made a sour face and refused to give up her seat when, a half minute later, the old viscountess climbed inside the coach.
“This is perfect,” Clarinda announced, crowded between Kit and the duke, who wedged her in like a pair of bookends. “I only wish I’d known earlier so I could have brought champagne.”
“I’ve brought champagne,” the duke said.
Ambrose laughed. “Only one bottle?”
“Hell, no.”
They’d opened two before they reached the tiny twelfth-century chapel where a jovial vicar was waiting to perform the ceremony. Clarinda insisted that she serve as a bridesmaid, and she talked up until it was time for Violet and Kit to exchange vows.
“This will be more than a house party now,” she said, straightening the train of Violet’s gown. “It will be an event. It’s only Thursday and we’ve had our guests elope in a whirlwind wedding. It’s ever so much more exciting than the puppet show planned in the rotunda.”
“Be quiet,” Ambrose whispered, patting her fondly on the bum. “The minister is beginning the ceremony.”
“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Fenton saw
you. He’ll think you’re ill behaved.”
“He knows I am.”
But Fenton had eyes only for his bride, Ambrose decided. He couldn’t deny that Violet and Kit made an attractive pair, a dashing swordsman dressed in a long black coat and his own elegant trousers. His bride looked as radiant as an angel.
And Eldbert—he was stout but ever so dignified.
His friends.
Ambrose realized how profoundly they had influenced his life. What kind of person would he have become without them? Well, whatever he was, he could strive to better. If Kit could pull himself out of his private hell, then perhaps Ambrose could lend a hand to others in a similar unfortunate position.
His mother, who hated the baroness, was collapsed on Francesca’s shoulder, weeping her head off. The baroness was consoling her, all in black, her wrinkled face woeful but kindly. His mother was crying for no reason, really, except perhaps that she had drunk too much champagne.
But at last the ceremony began, and there was quiet as Kit and Violet exchanged their vows. They kissed, clearly so much in love that even Ambrose felt his eyes fill. It was an inspiration to realize his old friends had fallen in love. It was distressing to think he’d ever resented them when they could have been in touch all these years, instead of his waiting to prove to them he was better off than they would ever be.
Of course, that wasn’t true.
Kit and Violet would be content and prosper and pursue their own adventures in the future as they had in the past. Ambrose considered it an honor to be counted in their circle of friends. His sons had declared Fenton to be their personal hero.
Until this moment Ambrose would have denied that he had kept company with a common workhouse boy. But now it was an honor.
The servants of Charnwood House had been alerted to expect a wedding party. So, unfortunately, had the guests. Kit had hoped to keep the marriage a secret from the main body of the manor until morning. But the scandal broth had spilled; a group of ladies and gentlemen stood waiting in the hall off the great salon to offer congratulations and catch a glimpse of the bride and groom.
A Bride Unveiled Page 22